A Thousand Words
by AliceUnderSkies13
Summary: Mr. Creevey recalls a memory from his son's childhood. One-shot. Please review.


A camera, sitting on a desk in a living room full of ordinary, non-magical things. Empty glass bottles that still smelt of fresh, cold milk, a ragged old carpet, an easel with a blank canvas set against it. Rays of afternoon sunshine peeked through the half-closed blinds and stretched their lazy fingers along the wooden floor. One beam, spilling itself like an overturned cup of milk, alighted on a single photograph lying on the rug. People flying on broomsticks, frozen in an unbelievable scene of magic. One photograph turned into another, which turned into another until a large, scattered pile was pulled from the shadows of the dark room. Most were portraits of children, a red haired boy who appeared to be vomiting slugs, a bushy haired girl holding a stack of books and smiling, a black haired boy with an odd scar on his forehead grinning forcibly as a handsome man with blinding white teeth basked in the camera's bright flash. There must have been hundreds of pictures, some of a magnificent castle surrounded by water, a train puffing along the tracks, a bedroom with red and gold drapes, a little boy with mousy hair leaning against one of the bedposts. These could have been the pictures taken in a dream by the overly attentive mind's eye, but these images were not make believe, they were real.

For Colin Creevey, all of it had been real, too real to ignore. The magic, the wands, the friends, the hooting owls that soared beneath a black, starry sky, everything. And the spells, they had been real too. His mastery of the Impediment Jinx had brought a cascade of whoops and high fives, even Harry had complimented him on a job well done. Colin had felt pride in that moment, knowing that he was on his way to being a part of something bigger than himself. He had smiled his wide, childish grin, his shaggy, brownish hair falling in front of his eyes. That night, he had asked his brother to take a picture with him, the two of them with their arms slung around each other, wands up in celebration. That particular photograph was crumpled underneath the divan, along with a few others.

When the pile of pictures faded back once again into the darkness, the injuries were noticed. Rips, tears, slightly burned edges, yellow tear stains that turned to rivers of blood when viewed in the shadows. Shaking hands had accidentally torn the images, tortured minds had tried to burn them, and eyes, raw and red, had let pour a thousand tears over each and every one, the black and white colors bleeding, turning to a whirlpool of gray. But these photographs did not always evoke such a grievous response. Sometimes, they brought forth warm, happy memories that tasted like milk and honey.

Mr. Creevey could recall such a memory as he sat in the parlor, waiting. He was dressed in his finest black suit. He remembered a happier time, an afternoon sitting in the same living room, the same camera perched atop the desk like a barn owl sitting high up in the rafters…

Summer was easing by on its own, free from the parental patronage of spring and winter. It was a time for freedom, white seagulls taking to the skies and sea foam lapping at the shore. No more oppressive chills, no more pressure to bring forth life anew, summer could simply just exist, much like how a photograph exists in its own world of stolen time. Three weeks in, and the Creevey brothers were enjoying their holiday very much. The grass sighed under their weight as they roughhoused like most little boys do, flocks scattered when Colin ran excitedly forward and threw breadcrumbs into their midst, and the sweet rain of summer touched their young, innocent faces. Mrs. Creevey was typically in the living room during these months, painting at her easel, and Mr. Creevey would be either at his desk or outside with his camera, photographing his two sons.

It was an old camera, an Argus C3 with a massive silver flash. But for some reason, Mr. Creevey loved it. The way the pictures came out, the way it felt heavy in his hands, and the way it made Colin smile, these were reasons enough to view it as the best camera in the entire world.

One sleepy afternoon, he was sitting in his desk chair, cleaning the silver flash with careful strokes. Out in the hallway, there came the sound of pattering feet, and then Colin's head peeped out from behind the doorframe. His brown eyes widened when he saw what his father was doing.

"Oh! Dad, let me, let me!" he squealed as he darted around the corner, sliding across the polished wood in his socks. He nearly fell a couple times, but kept running nevertheless. Colin finally slid to stop in front of the desk, bracing his hands against the edge as his little head bobbed forward from the momentum. "Let me help, Dad!" he said again, a grin blossoming on his face.

Mr. Creevey laughed. "You need to be careful, Colin. Gonna get yourself hurt one of these days."

"Dad, I wanna help," he whined. He stuck out both his hands and made a grabbing motion, like he was a crab clicking its claws. "Can I touch it?"

"All right, but be gentle."

Colin's hand came forward, but then it stopped. He seemed to be contemplating the best way to approach this. Despite his tendency to be overly excited and rambunctious, he seemed to adopt a sense of peace whenever he came in contact with cameras. His voice was not quite as loud, his touch was kinder, softer. Colin balled his fingers up into a fist; he didn't want to risk breaking this beautiful work of art. That's what it was in his childlike mind, a sculpture made of metal and memories, worthy enough to be hung on the wall like his mother's paintings. And it was a piece of his father in a way, a strange fragment of his soul that had morphed into something tangible. Colin could look at it whenever his father was at work and know that he was always there, that he would always come back. For some reason, Colin was afraid that his father would just disappear. Who knew the true perils of being a milk man? There were dogs and cranky old people that didn't like Mr. Creevey 'trespassing' on their lawn. And then there was what Colin feared most, that his father would just get tired of his mundane job, that he would dash the milk bottles against the curb and run off, looking for _real_ pictures to take, real and exciting stories to tell. If he ever wanted to do that, he would have to come back for his camera.

_Daddy would never leave his camera behind_, Colin thought. The existence of the camera kept Colin's adolescent mind at ease, but little did he know that it wasn't the camera his father would never leave behind, no, it was something much more valuable…him.

After what seemed like hours of thought, Colin looked up at his father. "I should be gentle," he said, "like I'm holding one of your milk bottles from work?"

Mr. Creevey smiled. "Yes, exactly like that. Here, you won't break it." He pushed the camera towards his son and watched as Colin's hand came tentatively forward, careful not to awaken the sleeping film beast that lay deep inside.

At last, contact was made. The brown eyes became twin moons within his pale, round face. He shuddered in excitement at the feeling of the cold silver. How many moments had been frozen by that magical mechanism? How many startled faces had been caught mid-laugh or mid-cry? This camera was magic. Gleaming disc of light, beetle black body with the memories of a thousand unknown faces for a heart. Colin placed his palm near the lens. He swore that he could feel the film beating beneath his fingertips.

He withdrew his hand and the spell was broken. Turning to his father, he asked, "Will I take pictures like you someday?"

"Of course!" Mr. Creevey said, picking Colin up off the desk and setting him in his lap. "And with a lot of hard work, I'm sure you're going to be an even better photographer than me."

Colin giggled and his cheeks turned red. Be a better photographer than his father?

_Impossible, Daddy is the best._

But still, the compliment could not be ignored. Colin's slight chest swelled with pride. He hopped off his father's lap and started pretending to take pictures with an imaginary camera, jumping all over the place as he did so. "My pictures will be better than the best! I'll take pictures of animals, and sports, and the outside, and even famous people!"

Mr. Creevey's shoulders shook with laughter. "You don't want to be part of the paparazzi, Colin."

"Papa…poppy racy?" Colin stopped hopping and stared at his dad, his head cocked to one side. "That's a silly word. Sounds like the name of a magician." He took a deep breath and said in the deepest voice he could manage, "The Great Pop-sa-ratti!" His immature vocal chords could not take the stress, his voice cracked and soon he was doubled over in a fit of coughing. Mr. Creevey laughed even louder still.

"Oh, Colin," he sighed, getting up and walking over to his son. He tousled that mop of mouse brown hair and kneeled down so that they were at eye level. "The paparazzi isn't for you, see? Start with little things. Here." He placed a small, flat object in his son's hands.

A pure white shell, flawlessly crafted by the tide, beautiful ridges adorning its surface like a royal's mantle. It had come from the shore just outside their window. The rolling English Channel had plucked this ornament from a dying shellfish, slowly fading away, and had brought it up to greet Mr. Creevey's bare toes nestled in the sand. "I think I'll give this to Colin," he had said to his wife. "He'll appreciate it. How a seemingly ordinary shell could be so extraordinary."

Colin looked down at the thing in his hand. "Wow! Thanks, Dad. I'm gonna go show this to Denny." He turned towards the door, but his father gently held his arm back.

"Wait, there's something else I want you to have." Movement of feet against the wood, floorboards groaning, shafts of milky light floating on the walls. Mr. Creevey's movements seemed to blur as he bent over and picked up his most prized possession. A camera.

"Really?" Colin's voice was small as his father handed him the old Argus C3. "I-I can have it?"

Mr. Creevey nodded. "You're old enough now. It's time you took up photography. After all, it is a Creevey family tradition."

Colin stared in awe at the camera. He ran his fingers over it, over everything, the silver, the black, the white. "Thanks, Daddy," he whispered. "I'll take good care of it."

"Well of course you will. I've no doubt about that. Now go show your brother, ok? He'll need a good teacher someday."

"Yes, sir!" Colin said, his body stiffening and his hand going up for a salute. And then all at once, he was gone, racing down the hallway, his feet slapping the hardwood, gone in an instant…

Yes, he was gone. Mr. Creevey felt a tear slide down his cheek, but he did not brush it away. Instead, he let it trace a line down his face, watching as it fell into his open palm. The tear struck a hard, white surface. Ridges rose and fell, the shell just as beautiful as it had been all those years ago. At the sight of it, Mr. Creevey felt a great hole rip open inside him. No words could ever describe the sensations, the feelings, and the memories that suddenly burst open and flooded every part of his being.

Not even a photograph, an image worth a thousand words, would suffice.


End file.
